


Heaven is in These Lips

by Caden_Ashford



Series: Myka, Lord Berkeley [2]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Awkwardness, Crossdressing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy I'm Sure, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2887940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caden_Ashford/pseuds/Caden_Ashford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka, Lord Berkeley, is not accustomed to laying himself—or rather, <em>herself</em>—bare before another person, figuratively as well as literally.</p><p>Or: the thinky-thoughts about Myka's identity that didn't fit in with the rest of the Regency fic I didn't know I wanted until I found myself writing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven is in These Lips

**Author's Note:**

> I told you there would probably be more of Lord & Lady Berkeley, and look! Here they are.
> 
> This takes place in Regency era England, in the same world as _[A Matter of Some Delicacy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2557514/chapters/5686115)_ , so you might want to read that first if you haven’t read it already. In fact, this picks up right where chapter fourteen of that fic leaves off, because I felt like that scene was worth returning to and expanding upon—mostly this is a rumination on how someone in Myka’s position might deal with their desires. Because I’ve never read (much less written) anything like that before, especially not done in the Regency style, this may be somewhat strange. If so, forgive me.
> 
> As before, this is a work of fiction, and in no way reflects on the real and noble Berkeley family. I also don’t own the characters of Warehouse 13.
> 
> Oh, and thanks to my lovely wife, who beta'd this for me!

It had been no great matter to remove her husband’s cravat, an action which Helena had undertaken several times in their marriage already. The strip of fabric had been tossed quite carelessly in some direction or other, and Berkeley— _Myka_ —had, from his moans as Helena pressed her lips to his bare throat, been quite content with its removal. He likewise put up no resistance to her quick and careful removal of his waistcoat, assisting her with the task by pressing up from the bed and tossing it away in much the same manner she had disposed of the cravat. However, as Helena’s clever fingers began to pull his fine linen shirt from his breeches, he began to tremble, much as he had the first eve after they were married.

Upon noting his tremors, Helena, still fully dressed, ceased her attentions to Myka’s throat. “Is this too much, darling?”

One of his rough hands cradled her cheek, the thumb gently tracing the sharp line of her cheekbone. “As I am unaccustomed to the use of my name,” said he, gazing upon her countenance, “I am unaccustomed to laying myself bare. At all, really, much less before another person.”

“Ought I to stop?” asked she.

His hand trembled still, even against her skin. Beneath her, his chest rose and fell with alacrity, as if he had just run a great distance, although they had not left his bed, and had done nothing more strenuous thus far than discover the secrets of each other’s mouths.

“I do not think so,” he replied gravely. “At least, not yet.”

“Then allow me, at least,” said she, withdrawing from his caress, “to bring us to a more equal level of undress.”

Following one last lingering kiss, she removed herself from his embrace, and from his bed, in order to shuck the Spencer she had worn to travel, and then, with care, her dress, until she was standing before her husband in corset and shift and little else.

“Helena,” said Myka reverently, gazing upon her. “She with the face that launched a thousand ships.”

Smiling, she seated herself upon the bed once more. “Marlowe, darling? At a time like this?”

With an answering smile, Myka replied, “When if not now? ‘Fairer than the evening air, Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars…’ To whom but you could I ever address these lines?”

“No-one, I suppose,” she returned with another kiss, and then, with a teasing grin, a variation on the same speech Myka had quoted. “Especially if none but I shall be your paramour.”

His countenance very serious, her husband stroked her face again. “I should never want another. Not when I could have you—dearest, sweetest Helena.”

“And do you, Myka?” she asked, every bit as serious. “Do you want me?”

“God forgive me for my sin,” he replied, “but _yes_. With every fibre of my being.”

“Then God forgive me as well,” she said, arranging herself to hover over him, “for I want you every bit as much, and then more.”

Pressing her lips to his once more, she returned her hand at last to the soft fabric of his shirt, and this time, when she pulled upon it, he did not tremble or shy away, and allowed her to remove it from his breeches.

In an attempt not to disturb her husband any more than was necessary in this endeavour, Helena lifted the hem of his shirt with the utmost care, raising it inch by inch, until, at last, her careful exploration had bared some small piece of Myka’s stomach.

The moment her fingers came in contact with her husband’s skin, he gasped quite suddenly into her mouth, filling her with such concern that she withdrew immediately. “Too much?” she asked once again.

“No, no,” he replied. “I was merely surprised. Please,” he whispered, “do not stop on account of my comfort.”

He seemed quite serious, though Helena was certain he had never experienced such things, so she did not return her mouth to his, or proceed any further. “Your comfort, darling, is all I seek from this encounter.”

“Truly?” he asked, with an arch stare. “I very much doubt, my lady, that my comfort is _all_ you desire from this encounter.”

She laughed, though the laugh turned into a different noise entirely as Berkeley reached up and began, with surprising expertise, to remove the pins from her hair. “You may be right, at that,” she admitted as her husband continued, the pins falling in disarray upon the night table beside his bed. “But then,” she added, her voice sounding thick even to her own ears, “I have never declared myself motivated by anything less than self-interest.”

“As I have only just finished declaring you the equal of Helen of Troy,” said Myka, “I cannot say you are wrong to be so conceited.”

The last of the pins came out under his care, and her hair fell softly, becoming a dark curtain around them both as she returned her lips to his for a long moment. It was Myka who pulled away this time, his strong hand stroking through her dark locks. “In all my ardor,” he declared, “I hardly dared dream of this moment. For to dream was to hope, and I could not allow myself such hope, not when I believed you so far beyond my reach.”

Helena’s eyes were dark as pitch as she lifted his other hand to cover her breast through her corset. “I dare say I hope that I shall be within your _reach_ for a long while to come.”

Quite suddenly, she found herself flat upon her back, Myka hovering above her. He appeared equal measures anxious and determined, and Helena decided she would make this as easy for him as possible, guiding his hands to the back of her corset. She began to instruct him gently upon its removal, but he reminded her with a laugh that he had not _always_ worn shirts and trousers. “I am, in fact, quite familiar with the workings of the corset,” he added, divesting her of the garment with a fervor she found as surprising as it was arousing.

For a while, then, they did not speak, exchanging kisses and caresses that left them both flushed and wanting, until suddenly, Myka pulled away once more, falling back to rest upon his knees.

“Is something the matter, darling?” asked she, raising herself upon one elbow.

“Not at all,” said he, although Helena was sure she glimpsed a certain measure of dis-ease in his face. The reason soon became clear, however, as he stripped off his shirt, an act which she was certain was the cause of his anxiety.

Once the shirt had gone the way of the rest of their discarded clothing, Helena was afforded her first true look at the bindings upon his chest, as well the jagged scar that marred the otherwise perfect skin of his abdomen, the sight of which made her own stomach turn—more for the pain it must have caused him than from the sight of the wound itself. She also saw, even from a cursory glance, a number of other scars upon his flesh, though she could tell that this particular injury, merely from its size and location, must have been the reason he was furloughed; the reason, in fact, behind their meeting at all.

“My poor darling,” she sighed, lifting one hand to trace the length of the scar for some time, until she reached up to grasp Myka’s shoulder to draw him back down towards her. “I should ask about each and every one of your scars…but I think now is not the moment.” She gave him a look that was more forward than it was coy, and he laughed most nervously as her hand came to rest upon the bindings on his chest. Helena, well familiar with the pleasures of the female form, considered, briefly, unwinding them, removing them layer by layer until she could see the fullness of the breasts which he hid beneath them, but the fear in his eyes deterred her, and she moved her hand back down to the safety of his waist. “Do stop me if I do anything which makes you uncomfortable, Berkeley,” she said, returning quite purposefully to the name with which he was more familiar in order to restore to him some sense of safety. The act seemed to have its desired effect, for he gentled beneath her hands, and laughed again, this time more freely.

“I must admit,” said he, “I haven’t the faintest idea what I—what _we_ —are doing.”

Though Helena, well experienced, could have responded to this in a most wicked manner, she considered, given her husband’s _in_ experience, that this course of action was unwise, and instead lay quietly beneath him in naught but her shift. “We do not have to do anything, my darling. No course has been laid for us in this; it is only that which we desire.”

And this, indeed, Helena considered, was the crux of the matter; that which _she_ desired, namely the union of their two bodies, would likely cause him some great discomfort, and with, she supposed, good reason, as he had been obliged to hide his true form, and was _un_ likely to be very comfortable with its exposure.

A memory recalled itself to her mind, and, with all the gentleness she could summon, she placed her fingertips against the edge of the bandages around Myka’s chest, for only just the briefest of moments, before she took her hand away again. “The first night of our marriage—this is what you were referring to, was it not? You said there were parts of you of which you were ashamed.”

For quite some time, he said nothing, his eyes searching her face. Then, at length, he sighed, and laid himself down beside her, his own hand placed upon the spot she had so recently vacated.

“I have grown accustomed,” he said, tracing the edge of the bandages, “to thinking of myself in the context of that world which I inhabit. Thus, as I am a lord, or a soldier, I am a man, as is expected. And yet, when there are no expectations…I fear I do not know what I am.”

There was, she perceived, anguish in his gaze as he turned his head away from her, an anguish for which she did not have a sure balm. As it was, all that was available to her was herself, mind and body. It would have to be enough.

“Oh, darling,” she said gently, covering his hand with her own. “You do know. You are Myka Bering, and you are Lord Berkeley, and they are one and the same. Whether you are a man, a woman, both, or neither, it does not _matter_. You are nothing more than yourself, the _person_ whom I love dearly. As the bard once said, ‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

“Yes,” sighed he, turning his head back towards her. Helena was not surprised, she supposed, to see that his eyes were wet with tears as he lifted his hand to cup her cheek once more. “And ‘love is not love, Which alters when it alteration finds.’”

“Indeed,” she replied, drawing his hand away in order to press the gentlest of kisses to his fingertips instead. “Had I run the other way, darling, I think I would not be worthy of your love.”

He gazed upon her most intently, raising himself upon one arm to afford a better view of her. “How have I been so blessed to have found you?” he asked. “What have I done to earn such constancy, such devotion?”

“It is very simple,” said Helena, “and I have said it before: you have loved me, Myka. Nothing more than that.” Her hand alit, briefly, upon the jagged scar upon his stomach, and then came to rest, firmly this time, upon his chest. “Your body is your own, darling. I will not ask of you anything that you cannot give. I shan’t be injured if you never remove these wrappings before me, or if you never wish to give yourself to me the way I should like to give myself to you. But your heart—your heart _belongs_ to me, and I shall expect nothing less than your love.”

“And my love you shall have,” he replied, once again covering her hand with his own, pressing her fingers into his chest. It was a somewhat strange sensation; beneath the roughness of the wrappings, she could divine the softness of a woman’s breast. And yet, that which seemed of most importance was instead the beating of the heart beneath it all. And this, she supposed, was the truth of the matter, and that which she truly desired from their marriage: his love and his heart, no matter what form took shape around them.

He bent then, at last, to kiss her again, and they savoured one another for quite some time, until, with high colour, Myka pulled back once more. “I—do not know well how to please you,” he stammered. “I have read some on the subject, but I am afraid I am not—”

She silenced him with a kiss, and then guided him onto his back with a smile nothing short of devious. “As I have more than enough experience for the both of us, allow me to _instruct_ you,” she said, and when she was certain she had his attention, she removed her shift, the last of her garments. And then, gloriously nude, and apparently lacking in any form of self-consciousness, laid herself down beside him, guiding his hand to her bare breast. “I am certain, dear Berkeley, that you will prove an especially _apt_ pupil.”

Of course, Myka Bering, the seventh (technically eighth) Viscount of Berkeley, had never been one to shy away from a challenge. And, despite the relative strangeness of the situation, he did not shy away from this one, either, and did, in fact, prove himself every bit as _apt_ as Helena had expected. For all that he claimed he was not “well-versed,” Myka was an attentive lover. Though Helena did guide him, on occasion, with words as well as her hands, she did not, for example, have to encourage his mouth to her breast, nor even his hand to her centre. With some well-placed direction upon her part, she was soon soaring upon the wings of pleasure at the hands of her lover.

For his part, Myka seemed every bit as awed by her as he had been the first night of their marriage, gazing upon her with eyes nigh as big as the moon as she came back to herself.

“Truly, Helena,” said he, “you are a creature of endless wonders.”

Delighted, she laughed, and drew him in for a lingering kiss. “You are every bit as wondrous, Myka Bering.” He coloured at the compliment, and she laughed again, laying her head upon his still-wrapped chest. Through the curtains, she could see it was late afternoon already, which meant that they would, eventually, have to get up for dinner. But naked and sated as she was, she found she did not yet care to leave Myka’s bed—even more so when she gazed upon her husband’s face, and glimpsed within it an echo of desire which indicated he was, perhaps, not through with her.

After the second time—which was, truly, much better than the first—Helena admitted, rather loudly, that Myka was an _excellent_ pupil. “You know, the French call that—”

“ _La petite mort_ ,” he finished. “Yes, I know.”

“You _have_ been doing your research!”

He coloured again, rather prettily. “I had been afraid—that is, before we were married, I was not certain…what I might have to do. With regards to yourself, that is.”

“So _that_ is why you were trembling!”

“Yes. My knowledge was—clinical at best, and I lacked the, shall we say, proper _equipment_ to follow through entirely—”

Helena laughed. “Darling, in telling me you could not give me children, you removed all expectation, on my end, that our relationship would be of a physical nature. Believing you not to be whole, I was fully content to spend my life with you regardless.” With a saucy smirk, she added, “Besides, given my own history, I am particularly well-prepared to take my own desires…into hand, as it were.”

“Minx!” laughed he.

“Yes,” she replied, gazing at him with open adoration. “Though I do not think you would have it another way.”

“No, indeed.” He smiled, caressing her skin. “I was wrong, you know.”

Her body heavy with pleasure and tired from exertion, it was all she could do to turn her head to look at him properly. “About what?”

“To compare you to Helen of Troy. You are surely lovelier than she by far.”

Brimming with such happiness as she had never before known, Helena sighed and curled herself further into Myka’s side. “If our marriage is to be filled with such fine pleasures, and such pretty compliments, then it shall surely be a long and happy one.”

“Then I shall always endeavour to please you, my lady.”

Laughing quietly, Helena allowed her eyes to droop. “I’ve no doubt that you shall.”

**Author's Note:**

> The quotations about Helen of Troy—as well as the title of this work—are from Christopher Marlowe’s play, _The Tragic History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus_ , which is the origin of the phrase “the face that launched a thousand ships.” The bit about love looking not with the eyes, but the mind, is from Shakespeare’s _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , and the answering line about altered love not being love is from Sonnet 116.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I know this was rather different than _A Matter of Some Delicacy_. Comments and kudos are much appreciated.


End file.
